


Armonian Fever

by Saturn_the_Almighty



Series: Dichotomy [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood, Canon Divergence, Canon-typical language, Delirious Wash, Enjoy that HUGE wall of text at the end you fuckers, He's Bi As Fuck, Hyperventilation, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Love Writing Stream-of-Conciousness, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I may add to this later, Italics-a-plenty, M/M, Major Illness, Nosebleed, Pre-Relationship, Rated For Wash's Thoughts About Sex, Sarge is 'cripplingly heterosexual', Season/Series 11, Self-Hatred, Semi-sequential, Sickfic, To An Extent, Wash Has Fantasies, Wash Hurts Sarge's Feelings, Wash POV, Wash thinks a lot when he's sick and starved for oxygen, cursing, yeah right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 10:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15947069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturn_the_Almighty/pseuds/Saturn_the_Almighty
Summary: Wash contracts a virus that messes with his head.





	Armonian Fever

**Author's Note:**

> This did not turn out at all how I thought it would.
> 
> I really don't write Wash all that well. Too bad, take this piece of shit. Yet another rarepair because why the hell not?
> 
> -
> 
> I hope this makes up for the severe lack of posting recently. I've been fucked by school, crew rowing immediately after and significantly less down-time before someone turns off the wi-fi. I have about a chapter and a half of Great Distraction queued up and I'm gonna post it with illustrations (thanks, sxpaiscia!) and Notice the Signs, well, I'm slowly but surely chipping away at that. They should both be finished before New Year's, though, and then y'all can help me figure out what I should start posting next! ❤❤❤

Wash sat with his legs dangling off the edge of the cold metal platform that jutted out over the snowy cliff, held up by math and metal support beams. He was precariously perched but completely aware of it. One false move, one slip of his hand and he would go tumbling over the edge onto the jagged rock far below. He leaned back and tilted his head up to the sky, the grey blandness of the cloud-covered expanse not looking much more interesting with the yellow hue his visor bestowed upon everything.

He had spent far too many years seeing everything in yellow.

He knew, of course he did, that he shouldn't have been out here. He should have been inside, sitting at a table and trying to persuade General Doyle to let him and his men leave immediately and rescue the others. There was no time to lose. No time to be sitting outside and watching the sparse snowflakes fall from the sky and down the mountain. But there he was, doing just that. Wash squeezed his eyes shut long enough to let out a sharp hiss of breath and carefully stood up away from the edge of the platform.

He turned to head back inside the base and was met with a figure clad in red, one he knew all too well. Sarge was sitting on a pile of spare scrap metal covered with a tarp. He was facing Wash, his visor tilted just so. Wash slid his left foot back, a calculated movement instilled into his bones. He didn't mean to make it look like he was about to deck Red Team’s leader, it was just- it had become his first course of action years ago. When faced with another soldier, freelancer or not, catalog every viable exit, assume a fighting stance.

Sarge sat almost remarkably still until he tipped his head to the side and scooted over on the stack of scraps, creating a perfect place for Wash to sit. There was about four feet between them still when Wash had finally relaxed a fraction and stepped forward. He didn't sit down, though. Comfort was the least of his worries. Like the fact that he kept stifling yawn after yawn and struggled to keep his eyes focused. Sleep was not a luxury he could afford, not now. The others needed them.

Sarge didn't ask why Wash didn't sit down. He didn't usually ask anything, actually. Statements were his favorite kind of sentence, Wash had come to understand. Nevertheless, he did ask Wash something. “Son, why are you out here all alone?” he said, slowly moving to cross his arms. _I needed some air_ was Wash’s first response. A lie, naturally. _Because I'm not ready to go back in there and talk about the four people who are in danger and out sight._ The truth, second, always. Hidden and reserved for someone he trusted.

“I needed a breather before I went back in to talk to Doyle. I want to get them back sooner rather than later and I need a clear head to convince him,” he settled on. Sarge was straddling the line between someone he trusted and someone who needed to hear that first response. Sarge nodded sagely. “I see.” He patted the space next to him, a more obvious invitation. “I know our men can handle themselves, especially in enemy territory, but it gives me the shivers thinking about how terrible those dirty rebels must be.” Wash supposed that was meant to be reassuring but all he could think about now was the rebels trying to pry information out of Caboose.

Wash quickly dropped down next to Sarge and let out a breath somewhere between a sigh and a yawn. The truth was, “the truth is,” he was scared, “I'm scared,” and he didn't know if he'd be able to get to them in time, “I don't know if I'll be able to get to them in time.” He dropped his head in his hands. “Caboose must be terrified. How long has it been since I last saw him?” Wash wondered aloud. Sarge grunted. “Not to burst your bubble, but Caboose got along just fine before you showed up. Besides, he has Tucker. The Blues will be okay until we go get them,” Sarge assured him.

Wash found it disconcerting that Sarge didn't mention the fact that he blatantly admitted his fear. The usual response he got was either ‘suck it up, you'll be fine,’ or ‘it's not a big deal. This is just like training.’ No one simply let it slide. Sarge acted like he was used to people saying that and it made Wash wonder just how much the Reds talked about things like this. He could imagine every single one of them turning to one another and whispering “I'm scared.” War was scary. Wash had steeled himself before battles, joked with the others before missions and even encouraged the Reds and Blues before they ran headlong into something stupid but saying “I'm scared” was not part of his pre-combat ritual.

 _Maybe it ought to be,_ Wash thought. He stifled yet another yawn before he leaned back on his hands and mulled over the last thing Sarge had said. The Blues would be okay. Tucker was decent enough to hold his own one-on-one unless it was Locus or Felix and Caboose was smart enough to know when to run and when to pick someone up and throw them as far as he could. They would be okay. “Sarge,” Wash asked suddenly, “do you worry about your men?” Sarge turned his head and held Wash’s gaze behind his visor. He gave him a surprising answer. “No.”

“I know they're more than capable. They're gonna be alright. That doesn't mean I'm not going to jump at the chance to get them back. All of them. Even Grif.” Sarge moved his hands to the clasps on his helmet. Wash stiffened. He quickly glanced around. No one else outside, high cliff walls to either side of them, the base behind them and a drop into nothingness ahead. Sarge nudged him with his elbow and forced Wash to look at him. His eyes were like ice, hard and cold and strong. “Wash, I know you said you came out here to clear your head but I don't even need to see your face to know you've got too much jumbled inside that silly Blue skull of yours.”

Wash leaned away from him. His mouth was half-open, a biting insult on the tip of his tongue. It didn't matter that it was taking physical effort to keep his vision from unfocusing. What did Sarge know? He was a senile old soldier, kicked out of the ODST because he wasn't cut out to be the best of the best, out of his depth and pretending to be a leader to a bunch of idiots because it was the only thing that could keep him tethered to reality.

Wash realized, as a wave of fatigue and sleepiness hit him with full force, that he had said all that out loud. Sarge's expression contorted into one full of hurt and pain and anger. “Son. I may be old but I'm not crazy.” Sarge, his voice rigid, sat up straighter, giving himself a few more inches that didn't really matter. “I was kicked out because I couldn't deal with the sight of nineteen dead and dying men plaguing my dreams every _damn_ night.” He jabbed a finger at Wash’s chestplate with enough force to move him. “I am not out of my depth. I know _exactly_ what I am doing and I am never going to stop.”

Sarge's eyes seemed to crack like ice cubes in water. Wash could practically hear the popping and cracking sounds. “And as for being a leader, I am one. I lead those men because they are shaking with fear and my constant orders are the only thing that keeps any of us firmly in reality.” Wash tried to speak but all that came out was a raspy breath and a few more tears welling up in his dry eyes. “You don't know my men, you don't know me. You may have joined up and made yourself cozy with the Blues but do not think for a second that you can _ever_ know as much about them as I do.”

Wash knew he was right. He knew that Sarge was strong and fearless and he deserved to be the leader of the Reds so much more than Wash deserved to be the Blue’s substitute. He needed to apologize, make some half-assed excuse. _I wasn't thinking, I'm so stressed out, I'm tense and angry and I am so not ready to go after the others_. So many things he could say, all of them true. “I'm sorry,” he forced out. His throat was dry and raw. Wash wanted to drink something, eat something, stand up. He was too tired to do any of those things, however. What he really needed was a nap. He'd been putting off going back into the Fed’s base and he could only continue it for so much longer. He took Sarge's invitation to sit as an excuse to put it off longer.

He was a coward. He didn't want to go in and do what had to be done. He just wanted to curl up and sleep it all away, make someone else go in and talk to Doyle. He wanted to just leave without a word, take the Reds and sneak off. They could find their men on their own. ~~_That was a lie._~~ Only it wasn't that simple, no matter how much Wash wished it could be. If he slept now he wouldn't wake until it was too late. If he made someone else go in his place, what kind of person did that make him? ~~_Coward. Just like Doyle._~~ If they left without a word, Doyle’s terrifying ‘advisor’ or whatever would track them down.

His only option was to fucking face it. If he didn't do it no one would. How many of the others knew how to talk their way through getting what they wanted? None of them. He _wanted_ to sleep and forget it all, forget the whole damn universe. But he _needed_ to make sure he got everyone back. Wash couldn't stop now, not after everything he'd done and everything they'd given him.

He turned his head to look at Sarge, who was still frowning slightly at him, both hands stable on his arms. Wash heaved a breath that was harder to take than it should have been and opened his mouth. All that came out was a startling and shuddering cough that wracked his whole body and left him feeling hollow. For a second he thought his vision had blurred again but it was only the condensation on his visor.

Wash felt heat in his cheeks, an overwhelming heat that he knew all too well. A fever. He fumbled with his helmet seal and quickly wrenched it off, letting the dark gray get covered with a thin dusting of snow as it dropped to the ground. He pulled off his gloves with his teeth and ran his hands through his sweat-dampened hair, gasping for deep breaths of the cold air around him. Sarge watched in silence while he squinted at the white snow suddenly all around. His eyes kept fluttering closed and it took an eternity for him to open them again.

He took four enormous, wavering gulps of air and stared at the only stable thing that didn't seem like it was warped and shattered. Sarge stared back at him with wide, searching eyes ~~_they looked shattered just like everything else he saw._~~ Wash formed a single word in his mouth and whispered it with shaking lips. Fever. He saw recognition in Sarge's face and he gave Wash a curt nod before hauling him to his feet slowly. Despite the care that Sarge took, Wash still felt the blood leave his head and was left with a stinging pain in his implants and a headache that felt like it would split him in two from head to toe.

He leaned heavily on Sarge for support and pressed his palms to his temples, ignoring the ache when he screwed his eyes shut. He didn't need this. He was _trying_ , for fuck’s sake, why now? He hadn't gotten sick in a long time, this was insane. Right when he needed to be in his prime. They were about to mount a rescue mission. He couldn't do that when he felt like blood was leaking out of his nose with every breath. He brought up a hand to make sure and his fingers came away smeared bright red. Wash ground his teeth as he took a jarring step forward and squinted through his tired eyes straight ahead, towards the doors leading into the base. Sarge held him around his waist and let Wash rest his elbow on his shoulder and they slowly made their way down the hall. Wash recognized Doyle’s office and tried to turn towards the door but Sarge's steady hand pulled him away.

“I'm getting you to the med bay before you do something stupid and get yourself killed. You can't possibly be thinking about talking to the General in this state.” Sarge scowled at nothing in particular when Wash tried breathing out of his nose, only to have more blood drip down his face, settling into the crack between his lips and pooling at the corners of his grimacing mouth. He opened it slightly to let a breath in and ran his tongue over his lips to wipe away the blood. He looked like hell itself had lodged itself in his chest and was seeping out in between his ragged, labored breaths and with every heavy step.

Dr. Grey look one look at Wash, practically collapsing in on himself in a coughing fit, and told Sarge that he had Armonian Fever. Neither of them knew what that meant but Wash barely heard her anyway over the sound of blood rushing in his ears and steady, deafening thud of his own heartbeat against his skull. He lifted his head up to Sarge with twice the effort it took him to open his eyes after blinking and tugged on his chestplate weakly. Sarge took a moment before he reached out and clicked open the clasps that secured his armor and began carefully removing it. Wash laid back on the hospital bed Sarge had carried him to and flung an arm over his forehead. He winced at the quick motion and his head throbbed more painfully.

Apparently, Armonian Fever was a common virus that the Chorusians had unknowingly brought from Earth and it had unexpectedly mutated in Chorus’ alien environment. Being mutated made it more harmful to humans and also, surprisingly, harmful to the beneficial bacteria humans carried. That meant a vaccine had to be developed astonishingly quickly. Dr. Grey seemed to get a kick out of telling the story. She went into unnecessary detail and from where Wash was sitting with his eyes half-closed and his body temp spiking dangerously and blood trickling into his mouth and stinging his tongue with the taste of iron, it looked like Sarge was enjoying it too.

Wash had completely switched gears from being intent upon convincing Doyle to let them save the rest of the Reds and Blues to simply keeping himself conscious enough to keep from choking on his own blood and spit. Sarge, some time during Grey’s soliloquy (it really was impressive, the kind of language she used when passionate about a topic), leaned on Wash’s bed and absently rested his hand on Wash’s foot. Even in just his undersuit the touch sent and uncomfortable warmth up his leg and his nerves went into overdrive. He had to use what seemed like all his remaining energy to squirm out from under Sarge's hand.

Neither of the others paid him any mind but Dr. Grey must have finally remembered the reason why she started talking and went off to search through their supplies for the vaccine. Wash thought he heard her say something about all the other Chorusians being immune at this point and why should they need to keep vaccines on hand because no one ever visited their planet anyway. Wash removed his arm from his forehead and gazed through his eyelashes at Sarge. He tried to say “Well this got out of hand,” but he guessed it must have sounded more like incoherent mumbling from the worried look Sarge gave him.

“Wash, you need to go to sleep,” Sarge told him. Wash nodded numbly, only partially because he agreed. The other part was because he didn't actually hear what Sarge said. His hearing was fuzzy and everything sounded like static in his head. He guessed only by reading Sarge's lips which was a feat in itself. Wash nodded again when Sarge said something else (You're delirious, Wash. If I have to come over there and make you shut your eyes I will) and licked his lips again, tasting mostly sweetness instead of iron. It didn't feel right, the thick texture of the blood streaming into his mouth. It was too warm and his nose itched a lot and _it wasn't supposed to be sweet,_ he hated the taste of blood because it was tangy and metallic and it smelled like fear and stung his eyes and he reached up to rub his nose and his hand came away nearly coated in a deep red that was the same shade as Sarge’s armor which he had taken off and stored at the foot of Wash’s bed so it wouldn't be in the way, right next to his own armor which Sarge had taken off for him earlier because that had just been suffocating especially for him when he was feeling so warm despite the temperature being well below 70 in the med bay. Wash saw Sarge approach him with a slight frown on his face and he really didn't look like Sarge without his signature color so Wash motioned for him to lean down and he caught Sarge's face between his hands _one covered in red and the other pristine_  and pressed a lopsided kiss to the corner of his mouth because Wash's lips were sticky and he knew it had to be blood again which was Sarge's color so why shouldn't he have it, right? Was it okay, was that okay, did he make a mistake? He shouldn't have done that, what was he thinking, he was stupid, that was so incredibly stupid, that's not something he should have done with his own blood coating his lips. Wash's mind screamed at him, it tore at his thoughts and dissected his actions and crushed every split-second fantasy that popped into his head about Sarge kissing him back because it was _disgusting_ that he could even be thinking about that sort of thing considering Sarge had made it crystal clear to him in particular that he was _cripplingly heterosexual_ so there was nothing happening there, not now and certainly not ever, despite the fact that Sarge wasn't as old as he claimed to be and Wash had just recently unearthed his own files stating that he was quite a bit older than he had always thought, so of course there wasn't much of a noticable age-gap and apart from the fact that multiple members of boths teams whould and _should_  have several things to say about it if they got together there were very few things preventing them from having, at the very least, a physical relationship which was all Wash thought he was ready for anyway. Could he handle complicated romantic and sentimental feelings tangled between him and another person? Probably not, but last time he checked, Wash could fuck. Did anyone want to fuck him? Who knew, there were several ways to find out but only one or two were medically safe. There was also the option of simply going solo. He'd done that for fucking years, and no matter how boring it got he knew he was a reliable and relatively pleasurable option. It was comforting if not a little ~~_a lot_~~  depressing to know that if he failed to get laid he had a fallback. Ugh, fallback sounded too militaristic and he didn't want the military getting all up in his sex life ~~_or lack thereof._~~ Wait, what if he went on the rescue mission and got killed and died without having boned in at least five years? That would be torture. Complete and utter- why the fuck was he so hung up on it anyway, it's not like he really cared until a few moments ago when he smeard blood all over Sarge's face and- _FUCK,_ Wash was an idiot. That was so stupid, he shouldn't have done that, what was he thinking, he was stupid, that was so incredibly stupid, that's not something he should have done with his own blood coating his lips, fuck fuck fuck fu- Wash abruptly shut down his stream of endless thoughts the moment Sarge entered his vision counting backwards from five on his fingers. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had stored away the information that told him Sarge was walking through a breathing exercise, the same one he did with Caboose when he had panic attacks. Caboose hyperventilated when he had panic attacks. Was he- was he hyper- Wash focused on Sarge's fingers counting down and back up in a slow and steady rhythm and he tried to block out the nasty thoughts that told him _wow you must really be overdoing it if he has to calm you down like this_ and _how fast do you think you're breathing? Does it still sound like a tea kettle when you breathe like Wyoming said? Or does it sound like some shitty twink porn star?_

Wash would have slapped himself if he could, just to make himself SHUT UP. He shook his head to disperse those idiotic thoughts and tried to focus on what little he could hear of his own breathing. It was erratic, loud and heaving and so fucking fast. He was going about a million miles an hour. He couldn't get air into his lungs if he kept doing this. He would suffocate himself if he he didn't calm the hell down and follow Sarge's counting. He made himself think of all the things he would miss if he died right now. He'd miss Donut’s wedding, which would supposedly be the most fabulous wedding he'd ever attend. He’d miss witnessing Grif and Simmons make, well, something official. He would miss Caboose beat Sarge at rock-paper-scissors (which he'd been practicing). He would miss so much if he choked on his own lazy breathing and a shitty alien fever and the blood still trickling from his nose to his mouth _that he'd tried to FUCKING kiss Sarge with, disgusting_. Wash was better than that. He'd recover ~~_Recovery One was his fucking name, for fuck’s sake_~~ and talk to Doyle and save his men and do something about this civil war and get off the planet and go somewhere better and maybe retire and be-

the leader of Blue Team. For real, maybe, if Tucker said he could. Wash wanted Tucker to say he could because no one in PFL listened to him ~~_Rookie, bitch, little Wash, kid, good boy, softie, naïve, εpsilon’s shell, poor thing, broken, splitting at the seams, traumatized, how could εpsilon do this?_~~ and leading felt nice and refreshing and Wash gasped suddenly. His eyes were blown wide and his vision wavered between fuzzy and crisp. He saw Dr. Grey stepping back from his bed, an empty syringe in her hand. She shared a look with Sarge, who flicked his eyes between them both before settling on Wash. He was dragging a washcloth down his face and wiping away the blood , _Wash's blood- Why did he do that, why did he-_. Wash made himself clear his thoughts, wipe them away like a dry-erase board as his head quieted down and it no longer brought back bad memories that he had decided long ago to shove in a corner of his mind and never relive.

Wash blinked a few times and sat still as he listened to his slow, controlled breathing. He felt better by a longshot but he was still fatigued and slipping down the slope to a deep, dreamless sleep _(hopefully dreamless or else he might wake up sticky and wet and sweating and panting and aching and tingling and stinging and gasping for breath)_ but at this point he felt like a nap would do him some good. He could deal with all the chest-tightening stress later. Wash just wanted to _f a l l_

 _a_  
s  
l  
e  
e  
p  
.  
.  
.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually know someone who gets _super_ horny when they're sick. It's uncomfortable to say the least...
> 
> Don't forget to comment, it brightens my day! ❤❤❤
> 
> Hey, do you want to draw something for one of my fics? If so, just do it. I'd absolutely love to see it! You can hit me up on Tumblr @voiid-vagabond and tag it with #dichotomy fic but I'm not on that often so I might not see it. Alternatively, you can just put a link in the comments and I will scream over how beautiful it is before putting it in the fic and screaming about you in the notes.


End file.
